


Dor

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feren, Lindir, and the elk slept outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dor

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for lunarlumina’s “feren / lindir having a 'bar talk' (or trade gossip over too many dorwinion in a midsummer festival) about their respective roles with their lords. Both end up drunk singing and passing out, waking up in a hilarious setting (eg. Both being naked on thranduil's elk.)” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Something snorts, and that’s what wakes him. It’s a low, huffing sound, followed by the rise and fall of the fuzzy warmth he’s lying against, and then something solid kicks out beside him, and he realizes the sun’s in his eyes. 

Feren yawns, peeking open to see the forest floor around him, which isn’t especially jarring. He’s fallen asleep outside from time to time, as most wood elves have, particularly after great parties where the wine flowed swift as the river. Feren can still taste the Dorwinion brew on the back of his tongue, and he takes enjoyment in that, licking around and stretching out his arms. 

He rolls over, only belatedly realizing that it isn’t the dirt he’s slept on. He’s leaning against the massive form of King Thranduil’s favoured elk, resting in a drunken sprawl amidst the leaves. The animals have their own ways to celebrate that are said to be no less fun. Normally, Feren would find waking up against his king’s steed to be quite noteworthy, but today, there are even stranger things. 

Another elf is curled next to him. Dizzy, it takes Feren a second to place the soft, sleeping features: Lindir, Lord Elrond’s attendant. He came with the Imladris delegation and stood during the feast, like Feren, only to sneak away later with what bottles they could find. Feren’s mind conjures hazy images of Lindir’s blushing cheeks, nervous and fretting, but Feren assured him that servants are allowed to drink during such festivities. And finally, Lindir accepted his glass, and they enjoyed themselves as all elves are meant to. 

And now they lie together, both completely bare, with the empty bottles nowhere to be found and light streaming down through the trees. The nearest door into King Thranduil’s keep isn’t far off, though Feren still has no idea how they ended up here, of all places. Perhaps he was sent to attend to the elk—make sure it enjoyed the night as much as its master. It looks as though it has. He remembers a little after that. Drinking, talking, and more drinking, and giggling in excited whispers over the difference in their lords. Feren spoke at length of his handsome king, and Lindir went on and on about his beloved lord Elrond. Feren has a very specific memory of the final sip that did it: loosened Lindir’s tongue enough to speak a bad word of his master. Even then, it was only small, but Feren had delighted in a break to all the gushing, and he’d responded in kind with his own complaints—Thranduil is a deserving king, but he’s not without his faults. 

They have much more faults, it seems. They began to chatter closer, huddle against one another, run their fingers idly through similar brown locks as they cooed dutiful stories. Feren can remember pressing the first kiss to Lindir’s lips, Lindir moaning and pressing back—his only complaint was that he’s _young_ , and he wants more _fun_ , but Imladris is such a graceful, dignified place that there’s no room for lustful fumbling. 

They’d practically ripped of each other’s clothes. Hands everywhere, Feren explored the new vessel before him, laid the handsome elf down in the grass and—

And then the elk came along, and that, Feren can’t remember. It snorts again, rustling against him and kicking one hind leg. Fortunately, it’s large enough that both slender elves fit between its legs, pressed close along its belly. Lindir is still fast asleep. Clearly, he isn’t used to wine, certainly not of such high caliber. In some respects, Imladris seems very strange.

Feren should wake his partner in crime. He knows this, and yet, Lindir is such a beautiful thing, relaxed and peaceful as he is, with his dark hair a mess about his shoulders and his pale skin haloed in the light. Elrond is a lucky man, Feren thinks, to have the devotion of one so pretty. He could easily love such a creature, but they live so far away, and though they have time to wait, visits are just too few. And they both have their duties. If only they had an elk, Feren muses, swift and strong like the one beneath them, that could whisk them to one another in the blink of an eye, then back again before the sun rose.

The sun isn’t very high. There’s still time to dress and slink back to their beds, or one bed, if Lindir is so inclined. Feren has to force himself to wake his companion, but he does so. He strokes his fingers across Lindir’s cheek and purrs, “Wake, my dear Lindir. There are better pillows to use.”

Lindir smiles tiredly. But once Feren presses a kiss to his forehead, he stirs, shifting in place and breathing in, letting out a yawn a second later. His long lashes flutter up, clouded eyes giving Feren a pleasant welcome. He murmurs, “Good morning, Feren,” and then suddenly freezes. 

He pushes up, forcing Feren’s hand to fall away, and he glances down at the third of their company, who seems to be asleep but could just as well be lazing consciously about. Lindir obviously isn’t used to such creatures, because he stares at its hide before noting Feren’s nakedness, then his own. He splays one hand across his bare chest, flushes deeply, and parts his legs. Nothing covers him there, either. Feren spares a lingering glance before Lindir folds his legs again. 

He looks up at Feren to ask, “Did I do anything untoward?”

Feren laughs without meaning to. He immediately feels guilty for the worry that creases Lindir’s brow, and he reaches a hand to stroke Lindir’s arm in comfort. “Only to another servant, and I am sure I told you more than I heard in return. But there are very few who do not do something of ill note on days of Greenwood celebrations.”

Lindir shakes his head aside, accepting but still shameful. He rubs at his eyes and murmurs, “The arrival of my lord is certainly worth such honours, but I was not prepared for this.” Gesturing a hand at the elk, he adds, “And outside, with animals...” He doesn’t need to finish. Feren makes no comment; it’s merely a cultural difference. He doesn’t want to worry Lindir further by stating exactly whose elk it is. 

Instead, he suggests, “We should relocate. I will escort you to your guest chambers, if you wish, although I would be happier to bring you to my own.”

“I should see if my lord needs me,” Lindir mumbles. He looks horribly guilty, but Feren lifts to pet Lindir’s cheek, trying to soothe him again. 

“Hush, now. Your lord will not require you until midday; no one moves earlier after one of my king’s celebrations, particularly when Dorwinion wine is involved.” Lindir wrinkles his nose, but he looks like he understands. Neither of them is fully awake yet, either. 

Lindir still looks skeptical about the elk. But his first concern is, “Our clothes...?”

“Alas, if memory serves, they will be long down river by now.” Lindir groans, but Feren assures him, “I have more in my quarters.” 

He’s the first to stand. He manages fairly well, but Lindir takes a moment, sitting sweetly in the grass and gathering his strength. Finally, he pushes to his feet, but he stumbles, and Feren has to catch him. Groggily, Lindir leans against Feren’s shoulder, and Feren guides him back towards the castle. The elk pays no attention to their leave. More likely than not, it has its own pleasant dreams to chase.

The guard at the backdoor doesn’t bat an eyelash at them. She’s slumped herself and yawns when Feren looks at her. Lindir hides his face. Just inside the hallway, they nearly bump right into Prince Legolas, who’s wearing only a towel around his waist and dripping from head to foot. Feren bows his head respectfully, and Legolas rushes on by. No one says a word about it. That is the way of Greenwood festivities. 

Somehow, they make it back to Feren’s quarters, where they lie in his plush bed until they’re summoned to their lords, draped around one another in the meantime and reeking of good times.


End file.
